Severence
by Thirteen Ravens
Summary: A post Half Blood Prince Severitus fic, hopefully a bit different! Seventeen years ago a young Gryffindor lied about the true father of her baby. The secret would have died with her if it had not been for a certain old wizard's skills in legilimency...
1. Parts I and II

**Prologue**

Terrible, or necessary, it had still been a lie.

A lie told by a Gryffindor and passed as the truth well over seventeen years ago. And because that Gryffindor always had a tendency to speak their mind honestly their words were never taken as anything but the truth.

So a lie was told to conceal a secret, and every day that secret grew bigger, the lies had to also. But the liar was versatile and clever, and was able to adapt. It grew into the ultimate secret, and all the more terrible as the liar knew that people in the future would die because of it.

And it would have remained the ultimate secret if it were not for an ill-timed prophesy and a certain old wizard being expertly skilled in the art of Legilimency…

**  
I – Fire With Fire**

The sounds of distant sirens never seemed to waver or fade. The neighbourhood windows flickered with reflections of blue flashing lights, three fire engines remained at full pump, arcs of water still spraying up at bedroom windows, forcing back the flames still belching smoke into a choked, murky grey sky.

The crowds were of people either wailing or staring in silent horror as they watched their neighbourhood burn. The atmosphere was so grief stricken nobody could spare a second thought for a scruffy teenage boy, loitering silently nearby, the emotion etched on his face something other than grief and shock.

The flames were never ceasing, however much water the firefighters pumped the fires continued to burn as intense as ever. The crews were rapidly becoming exhausted. The boy continued to watch, unmoving and eerily still, the flames reflecting in his emerald green eyes. He watched until the rooves collapsed and the very house walls themselves began to crumble and fall inward on themselves. Yells of alarm rang out as an entire section of terrace wall suddenly toppled and crumpled forwards into the street, bricks exploding everywhere.

Then, almost as if this action had completely exhausted the blaze, the flames began to shrink back and the firefighters were suddenly winning the battle. As the first hissing of extinguished flames sounded, the crowd nearby let out a few weary cheers.

But again, just as nobody had heeded the oddly dressed teenager stood back against a yard wall for the duration of the blaze, neither did they notice him slip quietly away, or the significance of the fact that he had been obscuring a dirty old street sign that read "Spinners End."

He dreamt fitfully that night. Snatches of images, visions, colours and voices drifted through his subconscious thoughts, always slipping just out of reach whenever he tried to dwell on them.

And then, as he neared waking, a single thread of story broke free, and he found himself looking on as a white bearded old wizard stared sternly down at a younger man kneeling before him. The man was scruffy haired and unkempt, and by his stooping shoulders appeared to be in some state of grief.

"Forgive me," whispered the younger man brokenly.

Harry felt himself move forward, as if viewing the memory from a pensieve. He felt a terrible anxiousness, as if it was desperately important that he identify this man.

He moved a few more paces and then stopped dead. This man looked just like him. No - he had different eyes, it was James Potter - _it was his father..._

The old wizard appeared to age rapidly then, as if time had suddenly caught up with him, his hand reaching out to the man who looked like James. Opening his mouth to speak, his voice came as a bare rasp.

"No my child, _forgive me._"

As the other man shakingly reached up and grabbed his hand tightly something seemed to go wrong, the old wizard gave a sharp cry, his shoulders buckling; his hand was beginning to shrivel and turn black...

Heart clenching in horror Harry moved forward, and that was when the scruffy man appeared to hear him and turn - his familiar features physically altering, narrowing, until they resembled features that were familiar in a different way, and much less welcome.

The teenager could do nothing but look on shocked as recognition stilled the empty black eyes, and the old sneer began to curl...

Harry gasped aloud and sat bolt upright to nothing but darkness. Taking several deep breaths he attempted to calm himself down. It was a dream...all a dream...

And then, with one horrible shudder everything he had seen in Dumbledore's pensieve last week came back to him.

_No - it wasn't...not completely._

He had to do something about this. He had to try again…

A bleary-eyed Ron walked downstairs to an unusually sombre Weasley breakfast table. His father was buried in a copy of the morning's Prophet, he could still hear his mother clanking about in the kitchen. Hermione was already seated at the table, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. She looked up, weeks of pressure and grief betrayed by the grey circles under her eyes.

Just then, Molly bustled through with a fresh plateful of toast. She cast a hurried look in her son's direction.

"Is Harry still in bed?"

Ron frowned, "Er, no. I thought I heard him get up and go downstairs..."

Ginny's eyes shot up to meet her brothers. "But I've been down here since six – I couldn't sleep. Mum's been down here since five, we haven't seen him. I thought he was still in bed..."

Her eye then travelled up to the Weasley clock, to notice the newly added tenth hand, Harry's, was indeed pointed to "travelling." Her voice became more on-edge.

"I thought you swore to keep an eye on him Ron!"

Ron's jaw dropped at the accusation. "_Like you were keeping an eye on him! Did you see him go either? No!"_

"Okay, that's quite enough, Ginny, Ron," cut in Arthur swifly. He folded the paper up and met their alarmed glances. "We must stay calm, that's the most important thing. Now, think back, did Harry tell anyone any more about what happened on his sudden visit to Hogwarts last week?"

His question was met by silence and several shakes of heads. Molly wrung her hands nervously.

Hermione raised her head slightly. "Only that Professor McGonagall needed an urgent word about something in Dumble... I mean her office. He refused to tell me anything else."

Ginny lowered her head. "He's been so quiet…"

Molly looked over each of the teenagers in turn, frowning impatiently. "Could he have gone back to Hogwarts? Or maybe London? One of you must have heard him say something!"

Suddenly, Ron turned and kicked the wall in anger, startling them all.

"Let's face it, we don't have a bloody clue where he's gone! He's run away without telling people before, now he's bloody gone and done it again! I thought we swore to stick together!"

Ginny stood abruptly, frustrated fire kindling in her eyes. "Yes Ron, but kicking the wall and being stupid isn't going to help, is it?"

"Well no!" shot back Ron furiously. "But it makes me feel bloody better, doesn't it!"

"Will you two stop bickering!" Shrilled Molly over the noise. "Arthur, tell them!"

But Arthur had already picked up his paper again and was ignoring the conversation.

"Arthur Weasley, are you listening to me!"

The paper moved nonchalantly. "No; I can't say I am, dear."

Ron's retort died on his lips. The entire table instinctively tensed in preparation for one of Molly's blistering replies. But no such outburst came. Instead there was a pause and then a soft gasp. Mrs Weasley put a hand to her mouth and hurried across the room, straight toward her husband hiding behind the outstretched newspaper. In one swift movement she had snatched it clean from his hands. Ron and Ginny's eyes widened in alarm, but then she folded the paper roughly and turned to the light.

Arthur sat back rigidly and paled. "What is it dear?"

But she ignored him. As her eyes scanned the page she silently mouthed a few of the words, the rest of the room looked on, being too stunned to do anything else.

Being quite unsure of what else to do, Arthur stood and repeated his enquiry. Molly looked up, slightly dazed.

"I _knew_ this would happen."

"What dear?" replied Arthur quietly.

"The attacks. Now they've burned down Sarah and Julius's house." She whispered.

Arthur frowned. "Sarah and Julius?"

Molly shook her head numbly, and leant against the dresser for support. "You know, the Sarah I went to school with? That proud Ravenclaw who married that well-to-do wizard from Yorkshire?"

Here she turned the paper over, so that the animated photograph of a largish country house could be seen, its roof completely engulfed in flames.

"_This_ was their home. They escaped with their lives, but still…"

The breakfast table all stared at the picture, then back at Molly Weasley, slightly confused, until Arthur broke the silence.

"Ah. You know he always seems a lot older than his years, that Julius." He frowned. "Anyhow, I can't really see how that could be connected with last week's attacks."

"I do," she replied softly, wringing her hands again. "I used to owl Sarah regularly for a few years after Hogwarts. Julius Prince is -"

"Snape's uncle, and probably his last living relative," cut in Hermione, her eyes widening in alarm. She shot a panicked look at Ron, mouth open. "The newspaper cuttings in the library- _oh Merlin_-"

There was a sound of chairlegs scooting simultaneously back from the table.

II - **The First Confrontation**

The charred shell of the large-windowed house stood like a jagged black shadow against the night skies. Everything was still, but still the teenager waited. He waited until the small hours and the moonlight, until the sounds of the cattle in nearby fields had quietened and the barking of foxes sounded.

Turning as a movement caught his eye, Harry blinked and almost started as his eyes made out a form drifting in front of the house, their pale robes seeming almost ethereal in the moonlight.

_It seemed impossible, but it had to be..._

His heart quickening with all the horror, fear and fury churning inside, Harry checked the visibility cloak was still wrapped tightly around him, and then set forward to challenge the visitor.

He moved silently over the smooth brick driveway, picking his way past charred debris and furniture, his eyes only ever briefly leaving his target, who from the outline appeared to be a woman, motionless, her light-coloured cloak rippling in the breeze. He continued forward until he was barely ten feet away, and then - right hand gripping around his wand - he spoke out as boldly as he could.

"I'd hoped this would bring you here. I am alone."

The woman didn't even start, almost as if she had been expecting the challenge. Instead she turned slowly, lowering her hood to reveal a pale-haired head. Her dark eyes caught the moonlight, reflecting strangely. The fixedness of her gaze was such that an uneasy tingle ran down Harry's spine.

"How very stupidly Gryffindor of you," she replied in a voice deathly soft. "Remember to mention this as a mitigating circumstance when the house owners charge you with arson."

A cold ball of horror grew in the pit of Harry's stomach at the intonation of these words. It was too dark to see clearly, but he was convinced they had been spoken with a slight curl of the lip.

His knuckles white from gripping on to his wand Harry stepped forward shakily, hate and fear still throbbing in taught muscles, the pensieve memories whirling furious around his mind like some sort of cruel nightmare. _He could still run, still avoid this, run away from it all_ - but if he did he would always be running, always have something to become furious about, and if anything he was no coward. What was more, it was Dumbledore's bidding, and the respect and the love the old Headmaster had kindled in his youngest protege was too much for the Gryffindor to ever ignore or deny.

Slowly, fingers trembling, Harry unveiled an arm from his invisibility cloak and held a small bottle aloft.

"Take this and watch it. If not for my honour then-"

There was a dry, unfamiliar laugh from the woman. "For Dumbledore's Potter..? For the old man who so foolishly-"

"No - for my Mother's honour!" Hissed Harry through clenched teeth. "And for yours _-if you have any left!"_

The woman's body stiffened, her voice taking on a deadly whisper. "_How da_re-"

"No - please - there are lies, huge old lies, secrets. Things have been hidden from even you...from us...I swear on my-"

A distant pop sounded through the air then. A far-off gunshot, or more likely the sound of a wizard apparating.

Harry's voice cut in his throat, in one movement of panic he had thown the bottle, and the woman shot out a hand to catch it.

"Here - just take this - don't ever, _ever _let anyone else see -"

And with a sudden crack Harry disapperated, leaving the slightly stunned woman quite alone. But not for very long - the proximity wards set up all around warned her of anothers' approach. She turned slowly as the footsteps approached, another robed woman, this one with very dark features and a very cruel twist to her lips. She essayed a mocking curtsey and looked over the other with her heavy-lidded eyes. It was Bellatrix Lestrange.

"When you are quite finished moping over your hated relative's house, He requests to see you in the chamber." When the woman failed to reply to this Bella smirked slightly and her tone became more cutting and cruel.

"And a word of advice, woman to woman; that dress just does not become you...Severus..."


	2. Parts III and IV

**Part III – An Old Man's Memories**

_One bottle of old man's memories please, chilled and unsweetened…_

Much later that day holed up in the darkness of a Muggle's cellar, an unpleasant looking man with a hooked nose and a rather deathly expression held a small bottle above a glowing pensieve. The contents of the bottle had already been poured, but his arm continued to hang there, almost as if he had forgotten to lower it in absentmindedness.

Severus Snape, once more his usual ugly self, peered apprehensively down into the magical bowl. He could see three people seated in an office. One was undoubtedly Dumbledore – the other two were a couple sitting together holding hands; at first glance they appeared to be Harry Potter and the Weasley girl.

_Or perhaps James Potter and Lily...Evans._

_The boy had ruthlessly burned an entire terrace of Muggle houses and his Uncle's country home just to lure him in and give him this memory?_

His nostrils flaring, Snape lowered his other hand to steady himself, it gripped the table, fingers like curved talons. The small bottle fell from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

_He couldn't watch this._

* * *

"_Harry James Potter: Where in Merlin's name have you been! Look at you - covered in soot and muck! You've had us worried sick; everyone searching half the country for you- Arthur, Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Remus_-"

Mrs Weasley was looking rather pale, but had still managed to muster up enough belligerence to treat Harry with some of her good old-fashioned motherly concern.

"-goodness me; I think the least you could do is send a Patronus!"

When Harry failed to respond, standing there with his head dipped and eyes half closed and weary, Mrs Weasley realised scolding would get her nowhere. She took her hands off her hips and let out a weary sigh.

"Well then, I suppose we should get that robe off you before the soot rubs off and gets all up the walls. Arthur?"

"Yes dear?"

"Contact Hermione and Ron at once – get them all back home. For Merlin's honour the last thing we want is anyone else going missing!"

Harry stood numbly as Mrs Weasley took his robe, leaving him in a T shirt and dusty jeans. Taking her wand she performed a quick cleaning spell on them.

"Now dear – there's some fresh towels and soap in the bathroom – go and have a good and proper wash, you'll feel much better for it."

As Harry went to turn for the stairs he paused and turned back. Inexplicable emotion seemed to cross his face, and then awkwardly, unpredictably, he stepped forward and gave Mrs Weasley a hug.

"Thank you…" He replied hoarsely. "For everything."

As Harry pulled away to climb the stairs Arthur exchanged a concerned glance with his wife. He could see there was a tear in her eye.

Harry bypassed the bathroom altogether; he was too tired, and besides he just didn't care about being clean at this moment in time. His muscles screamed for bed, dots flickered before his tired eyes and after two days without any sleep at all he couldn't possibly keep them open for much longer.

His fingers clumsily struggled to undo his top button for twenty seconds, before giving up. He collapsed untidily on the bed, and just lay there, still in his clothes, too exhausted to even get under the covers. He shuddered as the cool sheets touched his feverish cheek.

He lay there unmoving in the darkness, listening dully to his heart beat. His ears were still ringing, his eyes still stung from the smoke.

He knew he was ill, but he wasn't sure if it was from exhaustion, hunger or shock. If it was sickness then there was no way he was going to make it to the toilet in time. He had thrown up earlier as it was; in some dark lonely alleyway. Eyes watering, body wracked with silent sobs Harry had retched until his stomach cramped and there was nothing but bile left.

He wanted to scream too but just didn't have the energy. He wanted to get on the roof of the Burrow and scream out into the darkness at the World. Howl and cry over his life like a little child would over a broken toy.

But he wasn't a small child; he was near an adult and his emotions were reined in and paralysed. A child could scream over his toy, and yet he felt he could not as much cry out over this latest monstrous injustice life had dealt him.

Dumbledore had lied.

Paralysed, numbed, speechless, confused.

Dumbledore had lied to him. His mother had lied to him.

And Snape…

He wanted to scream from the rooftops but had a terrifying fear that if he did, no sound would come out. So much emotion had been bottled up it was impossible to-

Snape was his father.

No, no, no, no, no.

Downstairs the Weasley hall clock chimed its usual 10pm tune. But now it seemed to be mocking him.

_Snape's your fath-er; James is no one._

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape…_

_Snape………._

Harry grabbed for a pillow and crushed it around his head. His throat was tightening and the room was closing in. The chimes of the clock still echoed around his mind and he had to shut them out. In desperation Harry started to mutter any words at all that would come into his head – forcing himself to think of a rhyme -

_Count to ten and it will go away…_

_Count to ten and after then…_

_You will be normal Harry Potter again. _

_Back in his cupboard under the stairs…_

_Keeping away from Vernon's glares…_

_Count to ten and after then…_

_No magic, sitting under the stairs again..._

Without even him realising it Harry had begun to relax. He was concentrating so hard on making up the rhyme he did not notice his breathing slow or his fingers stop clutching the pillow.

Within ten minutes Harry's mind was clear of everything but thoughts of his cupboard back at number 4 Privet Drive.

_"No magic and sitting under the stairs...again..."_ he whispered.

And then, he fell asleep.

* * *

**Part IV – The Harsh Light of Dawn**

It was the small hours of the morning before Snape returned to the cellar and to the bottle of memories still swirling in the pensieve. Checking that he was still quite alone he placed his half-empty wine glass down on the table, withdrew his wand and, heart thudding behind his ribcage, cautiously disturbed the liquid's smooth surface…

It began with the same memory he had glimpsed earlier. It was the Potters in Dumbledore's office, and by the Headmaster's grave expression they appeared to be having some serious discussion.

"I see," murmured Dumbledore softly.

"Well, there would be nothing wrong with me wanting to go back to Godric's Hollow, would there, Headmaster?"

The young confident man looked Dumbledore square in the eye. The old wizard deigned to answer, and instead averted his gaze to the visibly pregnant woman sat next to him, who so far had been quite silent. She sat stiffly, her arms crossed and her lips lightly pressed together.

"And what do you think, Lily?" He enquired softly of her. "Are you happy to move to the village?"

"Well," she began quietly. "As James knows, my heart is happy to follow him and stay wherever he is. But there's also my family to worry about - they live in Kent…I can weave some protective charms for them of course, but still…"

Dumbledore's pale blue eyes peered closely at her over his half-moon glasses.

"So, are you saying that you would be happy for the Confundis Charm to be placed on James' cottage? And furthermore; would you be happy to hide there – for however long that may be?"

Lily blinked. "Yes."

"And furthermore," continued the old wizard evenly, eyes still fixed deep into hers, "with Godrics Hollow being the Potter family's ancestral home, we mustn't forget the additional familial protection that offers either, must we..?"

There was a slight pause wherein Lily's eyelashes fluttered. She reached a hand tentatively out to find her husband's. James exchanged glances with her, took her hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly.

"All three hundred years of it, Headmaster," he smiled proudly. "Lily's just uncertain about moving away from home, but I will take good care of her, and the little one when he or she comes along. There might be a war going on out there, but I promise they will be safe with me."

Dumbledore smiled and gave a slight nod of the head to acknowledge James' hearty reply. But he still did not break eye contact with Lily.

Abruptly the scene shifted to a darkened bedroom with rainfall pattering lightly against a small latticed window, the form of a young woman lying crumpled on a bed, her long auburn hair spilling onto the bedsheets. Her face was tearstained and her expression exhausted, as if she had just spent quite some time crying. An opened letter lay beside her.

The writing was easily recognisable as being that of Dumbledore's hand. It read thus-

_Dear Lily,_

_Please forgive me if you deem this letter to be improper and intrusive, but in the interests of you, James, and your unborn child's safety I cannot sit by and do nothing._

_During our discussions earlier today I glimpsed flashes of a memory in your eyes which if true – forgive me – must be taken very seriously indeed._

_The first thing I shall need to ask of course is when did this confrontation happen? The second; does James know of it? I am assuming by his insistence on you both remaining at his ancestral home that he does not. This is most unfortunate and, if fate has already come in to play, may well leave you, and others, in a much more vulnerable position than you may realise._

_The second thing I must also ask concerns Legilimency. As you may know I am a respected Legilimens, what you may not be aware of is that Voldemort is too. You must therefore realise that what is not safe from my eyes, is not safe from his either._

_I urge you to please consider your options. I enclose a small memory bottle – you know what I would advise you to do._

_Please be so prudent as to destroy this letter once read._

_Yours truthfully,_

A.B.W.P.D

There was barely enough time to finish reading the letter before the scene shifted once more.

It was the same bedroom, softly lit by the early light of dawn. This time there were two people present perched on the edge of the bed; husband and wife – James and Lily Potter – arms entwined and kissing passionately they fell backwards on the tangle of unmade sheets once again.

"Thank you James," she breathed finally managing to prise herself free from his grasp and sit up. "Last night was amazing, so amazing. You were so passionate, it was just…beautiful. "

James lay there silent and thoughtful, a faint, yet distinctly triumphant smile on his face.

"Even better than our wedding night?" he murmured.

Lily laughed and took a playful swipe at him. "Silly thing! Yes, I don't know…" She trailed off and gazed lovingly into her husband's eyes. "The past few weeks have been so much better for us – I'm feeling so much happier…"

Suddenly and without warning James gave a wicked grin and pulled her back down on the bed. Lily laughed joyfully and closed her eyes as her man's intense shadow loomed over her, her smiling lips enticing him down into a long, passionate kiss.

The scene was both stark and beautifully complete; the pair possessed an instinctive grace, a kind of unconscious sense for one another's movement that was almost psychic; one might have supposed that they had been together for an eternity as opposed to barely two years.

The dawn light strengthened still more and the first sliver of sun began to show over the horizon, throwing a weak dart of light through the bedroom curtains. With it came the nearby ringing of church bells, the chinking of milk bottles and the first sounds of people leaving their houses to go to work.

The couple did not seem aware of anything but each other, however; and they were so ardently involved that the man wasn't as cautious as he normally was, and thus did not feel the usual sensations that warned him his entire body shape was beginning to alter; that his hair was flattening and returning to its normal length, that his nose was beginning to grow larger and more hooked...

To those who knew who these two people were, and the desire and want still etched on their faces, the truth could not have been starker.

_And to those who cared: no crueller._

* * *

A few hundred miles away, a sleeping teenager tormented himself by replaying the memory once again in his dreams; looking on with a hollowness as his mother's eyes opened slowly, sleepily. At first she appeared to smile at the imposter next to her, and then she focused.

Her mouth flew open and she uttered a small gasp of dismay. Harry's gaze flicked toward Snape and he could see the same terrible shock creep into his expression as he realised his Polyjuice potion had worn off.

The couple both lay frozen as if stunned until Lily finally snapped to her senses and pushed her mistaken lover violently away.

"_What the hell have you done with James?_!" she shrilled, her eyes large and wild. In spite of himself, Snape visibly flinched. "Where is he! What have-"

The dark imposter stood and drew himself up tall and defensive. "He's on his usual night shift, and just as he said he will be home in two hours."

"_And what about the last four cancelled nightshifts...?"_

"They weren't cancelled;" replied Snape slowly, his black eyes glittering. "Potter worked every single one of them."

Lily paused, her eyes staring blankly as she absorbed the information. Then as calmly as she possibly could, she crossed to her bedside cabinet and took out her wand. Then, with an apparent equal measure of calm, turned and approached the Slytherin. They met each other's gaze, and then, without warning Lily lunged and smacked him hard across the face.

"How _DARE_ you trick me!"

Snape instinctively held a hand up to his stinging cheek to feel blood where the tiny diamonds on her wedding ring had cut him. His mouth twisted.

"I seem to remember you enjoyed it!" he spat back.

Lily quivered, for a few moments she looked as if she was about to cry.

Snape looked away, his mouth twitching upward in a bitter smirk. "Better than your wedding night, indeed? _Well, perhaps you made the wrong choice?"_

Harry looked on in silent terror as his mother's face suddenly flushed with fury. She gripped her wand tightly between her fingers and pointed it at the defiant Slytherin, her eyes alight with green fire.

"Who the hell do you think you are speaking of wrong choices? GET OUT!"

His expression unreadable, Snape paled and swung around to leave. As his hand grasped the door handle though he shot a glance backward. Her distraught eyes met his and there was an eerie pause, both appeared to hang there, struck with indecision; caught in each other's eyes.

Then, shoulders slumping, Snape finally turned away and the spell was broken. With one more swish of robes and a simple click of the door latch he was gone. Her barrier of defence and defiance collaped, a suddenly fragile Lily Potter slumped to the floor and began to sob.

His feelings reduced to nothing but a mangled mixture of horror, anger and embarrassment, Harry finally managed to tear his eyes away from the scene and stare out the window.

He had to constantly keep on reminding himself that this was a memory, that he was powerless to alter anything, but he couldn't help his emotions; for this was the memory which had done the most to brutally shatter everything he knew.


	3. Parts V and VI

**V – The Pretence**

_I am not my memories; I am my dreams…_

He was quite lost in the terror of the dream for a few moments before realising where he was. Letting out a shaky gasp Harry ran a hand across his damp forehead and struggled to sit up, his mother's sobbing still echoing disturbingly in his ears.

"Harry, you're awake!"

"Oh God, thank Merlin!"

Ron and Hermione. Harry's eyesight was awful without his glasses and he squinted as Ron's face came closer and became less blurred.

"We thought you'd gone and done something really…mental – without us, you know?"

The teenager groaned and tried to prop himself up better while his friends crowded him.

"What time is it?"

"It's eight a.m," replied Hermione soberly. "You've been asleep for hours."

"Have I?" Was Harry's weak reply. To him it had felt like five minutes; every single muscle in his body ached like he had the flu.

"Yes. God Harry; where have you been? You smell like an old cauldron and…well…_your hair_…"

A stab of pure terror went through Harry's heart, and he felt suddenly very wide awake.

"_My hair's what?"_ he squeaked.

Ron and Hermione shot confused glances at each other.

"Well," frowned Ron. "It's…just a bit…manky, really."

"Most likely due to all that smoke and the flames," commented Hermione offhandedly. "The pictures in the Prophet looked bad enough; I would imagine witnessing the fire first-hand would be terrifying."

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again, slightly annoyed. _So his friends had already assumed it was him?_

"I...what do you..._what do you mean, Hermione?"_ He feigned. His searching hand found his glasses and he put them back on to find his friends staring back at him meanly.

"I thought we were going to stick together, being mates and all that," he retorted. "Why didn't you bloody well say you were hunting down Snape – you know I would have come!"

Hermione shot a glare at her short-tempered friend. "That's enough Ron." With a flurry of curls she turned back determinedly toward Harry. "Now come on; honestly and truthfully; where have you been?"

"Yeah mate," urged Ron. "Did you, or didn't you burn Snape's house to the ground?"

Harry frowned, and swallowed nervously; it felt like something was obstructing his breathing, choking him. He reached out for his best friend with a clammy hand.

"Ron," he whispered. "My hair…is it really bad? Does it – does it look-"

"Oh for Merlin's sakes!" interjected Hermione crossly. "I can't see why you're so fussed about your hair all of a sudden…It's just a bit of soot and dirt making it so greasy – go and have a shower and you'll see!"

Ron frowned at his friend's resulting look of horror, but deigned to comment.

"Well," continued Hermione after a very awkward pause, "if we are all so insistant to change the subject and remain secretive with each other then I might as well do something more constructive - like homework."

_Homework._ After everything that had happened this year Hermione was fretting about her homework for next term. The boys just couldn't believe it.

Harry snorted as Hermione pulled a spotless copy of Advanced Potions textbook from her trunk. "Do you honestly still think we'll be going back to Hogwarts this year to sit at desks all day and study?"

"Yeah" muttered Ron. "Get real Hermione."

Hermione's face took on a persecuted look. "Harry – I've spent nearly six years working for my NEWTS, if you think for one minute I'll let myself be put off-"

"_If Voldemort gets his way we won't be here to sit any NEWTS!_ " he hissed back.

"_But don't you see?_ If we don't keep on studying researching we'll not have the knowledge and spells to defeat him!" she retorted, eyes shining. "War is not all about fighting and duelling like you boys think it is – don't forget who found out all that information about Snape! And speaking of useful information on that man," she frowned, "how about you go and get his Potions book back from its hiding place?"

"I can't!"

There was an uneasy pause at Harry's odd outburst. His friends watched as he got up shakily and made his way to the door.

"If you can't tell us what's going on, Harry," called Hermione softly after him, "then who can you tell?"

The pale, weary looking boy paused, his fingertips on the doorhandle.

"I'm going for a shower," he replied quietly. "Then after, you two can come with me to the Dursleys."

* * *

There was a one in a thousand chance of a child being conceived by someone under the effects of Polyjuice Potion. Any Advanced Potions student should know this. 

Except, apparently, Harry Potter; who had immediately assumed "the worst" from the limited memories he had been given.

"_Stupid, blithering idiot."_ Sneered Snape to himself.

He was sat cross-legged on the floor – the same position he'd been in virtually all night - his back resting against a stack of storage boxes, eyes staring dully at the pieces of broken glass shining on the flagstones. He couldn't decide whether he'd prefer to smash the pensieve itself against the wall and watch the memories trickle down the stones like the wine did, or, go out and burn the Weasley's home in retaliation for losing his father's house.

If there was one thing he could understand it was Potter's desperate fury after viewing the memories; but he couldn't retaliate this way, as unlike Potter, he wasn't a reckless, unhappy teenager anymore.

He was a paranoid, unhappy man.

Sighing deeply, Severus rose awkwardly to his feet and summoned quill and parchment. Potter's assumptions needed to be put correct – and immediately, before the idiot could do any further damage.

_Potter,_

_Burn this after reading._

_You are not mine. In fact, there is a very small chance of conceiving a child while transformed by Polyjuice. I suggest you research in to it if you do not believe me. He gave you those memories as you have a right to them now you have come of age. This is all._

Snape paused and ran a hand through his lifeless hair; now for the most difficult part. He was tempted to be cutting and abrupt, but knew that angering the boy any further would be a bad move. He set his jaw and picked up the quill again.

_...I have, however, always regretted tricking your mother on those occasions. I do not expect you to understand, just to be aware._

He left the note unsigned, and rolled it up into a small scroll. He then turned out the contents of one robe pocket: around twenty bottles of Polyjuice potion. He had spent weeks collecting as many hair samples from strangers as he could – his survival as a wanted man who needed freedom to travel required him living almost permanently in disguise.

But he didn't trust Potter, or for that matter, himself, to risk meeting with him again, and with a great deal of the wizarding world now after his blood, Snape felt it was too risky to use an owl.

Yet –

His eye fell on the oldest, chunkiest bottle of the lot. The glass was dark brown and more than half an inch thick. This was a potion he had kept a long time, but had never used, intended for emergencies only. It was old-fashioned and known to be painful to take, thus overlooked by many in preference for much simpler, newer wand spells.

But, unlike any wand spell this potion had the advantage of being completely undetectable.

Placing the scroll on the boxes Snape picked up the bottle and examined it thoughtfully.

* * *

**VI - Unseen**

In the suburban estate of a Surrey town the day was turning out to be a hot and stuffy one. Sparrows chirped lazily in the neatly clipped hedges and intense mirages shimmered on the smooth, tarmac roads.

The sound of a diesel engine approached, the rattling noise invading the relative silence. The taxi door swung open and three young people got out – two teenage boys and one girl, all dressed in T shirts and jeans. One of the boys was looking rather unwell.

"Blimey Harry…" muttered Ron queasily, slumping down on the nearest garden wall. "How do Muggles travel in those things? Three hours in all those flipping traffic jams in this heat! I feel like I'm going to-"

"There are bushes over there," cut in Hermione unsympathetically. "If you're going to throw up then nobody wants to see it."

"No," replied Ron more firmly, standing up but still swaying slightly. "I'll be okay. I still think broomsticks would have been better – or Floo-"

"They would have, but The Ministry can't track us so easily if we act like Muggles, if you remember," muttered Harry tetchily.

"So, which number is it?" Commented Hermione in a bid to change the subject.

"It's…._Oh shit_." Harry stopped dead in his tracks. "That's Aunt Marge's car."

Ron's eyes widened. "The one you-"

"Yep."

Harry swore again. His friends looked more than a little apprehensive.

As they neared the house Harry noticed several other things wrong – the flowerbeds at the front of the house were normally full of mature bedding plants at this time of the year – but instead the dusty brown earth was dotted with Dandelions and thistles. Small weeds were also growing in the cracks between the paving slabs and in the otherwise bare flowerpots. Last Autumn's leaves, too, were still trapped in the corner of an unswept and dusty front porch, along with an old, faded charity collection bag.

Seeing the confused look on his friend's face, Ron touched him on the shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

"Aunt Petunia would never allow her house to get like this," muttered Harry as he rang the doorbell. Inside they heard a half-hearted bark from the bulldog.

The three waited.

Finally there was a small click of the door latch and the door slid open to reveal the gaunt, horsey face of a woman.

"Who is it Petunia?" Boomed a horribly familiar voice from further in. "I don't want any interruptions while we are trying to sort this out!"

Harry frowned and took a step forward. "What's going on Aunt Petunia?"

His aunt paled. Saying nothing she instead turned and walked quickly back into the living room. The three friends exchanged confused glances and followed her in.

The place looked oddly untidy – there were old newspapers stacked in a pile in the hallway along with several shopping bags full of clothes, shoes and old toys. Harry was the first to peer into the living room. A low growling came from the far corner, where a large-red faced woman sat glowering out of an armchair The growling sound was coming from an ancient, drooling bulldog slumped on the scattered piles of paper at her feet.

"So – it's the wastrel's son, I see," she growled. "Why are you still coming back here boy – on the dole and too lazy to rent your own place I'll bet! Well we've definitely got no time or space for you here anymore!"

Harry saw Ron's jaw clench with anger, but he himself didn't have the energy, much less the time to retaliate toward such an insult. Instead he turned back to his rather frail looking Aunt.

"Where's Uncle Vernon?"

Petunia paused, a dreadful look crossing her face.

"He's in hospital," she whispered.

Harry blinked, slightly stunned.

"Why…_why is he in hospital?_ "

"Why, didn't you hear? He had a heart attack over a month ago, you ignorant wretch!" boomed Aunt Marge.

Harry frowned, his mouth still slightly open with the shock. "Then….where's Dudley?"

"Staying with me," growled Aunt Marge – her face screwing up as unpleasantly as her bulldog's. "And that's all you should know."

Harry's eyes darted back to his other aunt. This explained why she looked more gaunt than ever. Petunia met his glance, her eyes full of fear.

"Is it true?" She whispered faintly. "Is it true that Dumbledore is dead?"

Harry gave a slight nod.

"Who's dead?" Snapped Aunt Marge.

"Just someone at St Brutus's," replied Petunia quickly.

"Yeah, and it might bring about the end of the World," added Harry flippantly.

Petunia ignored her Sister-in-Law's questioning glare, and instead left the room, beckoning the teenagers to follow her. Once upstairs and out of Marge's earshot she turned, her mouth drawn thin and a look of barely-reigned-in terror in her eyes.

"Was he…Murdered?"

"Yes." Answered Hermione quietly. Petunia's eyes darted her way.

"W-Was…was it…_a Death Eater?"_

The Teenagers looked bewildered at this. Hermione bit her lip, as if pained.

"Yes."

An odd expression seemed to pass over the woman's countenance. Without saying anything more she turned and went swiftly in to her bedroom, returning less than a minute later with a small pile of envelopes. From their yellowed look they appeared to be a few years old. She pushed them quickly into Harry's hands.

"I think these should be yours now…I've hid them for her long enough."

As Petunia made her escape back down the stairs Harry peered down at the letters. They were all in envelopes with old Muggle stamps. Some were addressed to Miss L. Evans, some to Mrs L. Potter.

But all had the same - _hauntingly familiar_ handwriting…


	4. Part VII

**VII - The Message and the Missives**

Harry stared at the small, spiked handwriting on the envelopes for what seemed like an age. His hands gripped at them, crushing them gradually between his fingers, his expression growing uglier by the moment. A magical force in the room had become quite palpable and was still growing in power; a glass on the bedside table began to vibrate, as did the bars of Hedwig's cage, and the few old broken toys on the shelves. The curtains were rippling back and forth even though the window was shut.

Ron dragged a nervous hand through his hair. He'd never witnessed anything like this in his own family home. This was unharnessed, raw magical power, and showed just how powerful his friend could be as a fully trained wizard. He had to admit, he felt a little afraid.

Then, just as Hermione moved forward and stretched out her hand to request the letters, the magical tension reached it peak, and suddenly and without clear explanation, the force imploded into nothingness and was gone. There was a loud _crack_ as the glass splintered and caved in on itself.

Hermione lowered her arm from her face to reveal a pale, shocked expression. Ron was wide eyed. They exchanged alarmed glances.

Harry bared his teeth ferally. "I could _kill_ him."

"Harry," ventured Hermione, trying her best to compose herself, "You wanted us to come along today, whatever this is, we are in it together." She gestured to the letters. "Please Harry – please let me-"

"Don't act the innocent Hermione – I know you recognise the handwriting!" spat back her friend venomously.

Ron looked at Hermione to see her brow furrow with shock and hurt, and opened his mouth to say something, but Harry, his expression dark, had already cut him short.

"And what do you think you can possibly do to help?" continued on Harry more loudly, his green eyes flashing with anger. Leaping to his feet and crossing to the window, he began to bend the letters in his hands

"What are you going to do Hermione? Turn some precious little Timeturner of yours back seventeen years; stop some bastard from-"

BANG!

The instant Harry flung the window open something dark had flown at it from the other direction and had slammed straight into the glass.

"What the Hell!" Exclaimed Ron.

His first thoughts being of Hogwarts' owls, Harry jumped up on the desk and peered down into the sunny garden. There was definitely something lying in the overgrown flowerbed beneath the Dursley's living room window, and few white feathers were still floating and twirling in the hazy summer air.

His heart thudding, Harry turned, ran into the hallway and jumped down the stairs two at a time, flinging the front door open with a crash.

"WHAT THE BLAZES..!" roared Aunt Marge's voice from the living room. But Harry had already jumped into the middle of the garden and was busy rooting about in the weeds.

Aunt Petunia then appeared on the front doorstep. She caught sight of the few white feathers blowing about on the lawn and looked at Harry with wide eyes.

"Was that your owl?"

Harry stood up and turned, a bundle of black and white feathers in his arms.

"No. Not Hedwig, look."

Harry stepped out of the flowerbed to show Petunia the bird. At the same time he heard the living room window squeak open behind him, and Aunt Marge's unmistakable growl sound out over the garden.

"What are you doing picking up a bloody filthy Magpie, boy? I'll let you know my father used to shoot those things, damn right of him, too! Put the damn thing in the dustbin and go wash your hands!"

Harry, of course, scowled and ignored this piece of advice. Walking round the side of the house, and out of sight of all house windows he frowned and turned the bird over; its head lolling uselessly backwards, its dark, glazed eyes staring emptily back at him. Some of the white feathers on its left flank were stained a light pink with fresh blood, which had rubbed off on his hands. The surface of the beak was chipped and in poor condition, the left wing also seemed slightly crooked.

Still frowning, Harry then considered putting the bird in the dustbin, but just as he lifted the lid off he swore he saw the toes on the bird's left leg curl inward.

Harry stared as the Magpie's leg twitched again. It was definitely still alive - what was he going to do? They would be travelling onward later today, and couldn't exactly leave the thing with the Dursleys – they _hated _animals. (Unless of course the animal happened to be a bulldog.)

As he rolled the bird onto its back a rectangle of yellow caught his eye just under the wing. Harry blinked in surprise as his fingers discovered it to be a small roll of paper.

But wizards didn't use Magpies for messages, did they?

If it was a wizarding bird, then perhaps he could put it in Hedwig's cage for a few hours while she was out, then hopefully it would wake up and he would be able to let it go before he went. It was worth a try, anyway – and if not he could always give it to Mrs Figg.

His mind made up, Harry started back into the house, the roll of paper firmly enclosed in his fist, and the scruffy, bedraggled bird folded up in the bottom part of his T-shirt. He met Ron at the front door, and followed him back upstairs.

When Harry got back into his room however, the first thing he noticed was Hermione sat on his bed with one of the letters unfolded in her hand. Her other hand he saw she held over her mouth, her face seemingly frozen in a shocked expression.

She looked up wide-eyed to meet Harry's furious glare.

_"How dare you!"_ hissed Harry. He dived forward to grab for the letters, but in doing so dropped the Magpie on the floor. Hermione was quick to react, with a swift flick of her wand the letters shot up and away from the bed and scattered themselves out in the air.

"Don't just stand there Ron!" shrilled Hermione as Harry began to make a grab for the letters.

"_Why not!"_ Growled back Ron indignantly from the doorway. "I'm not the one pissing my friends off reading their private stuff!"

"Because there's something really important we all need to know as Harry's friends and it would be much better if we sat down and talked about it instead of being so flipping immature!" she yelled back amongst the cloud of flying envelopes.

"Okay, fine!" Roared back Harry after more than a minute of futile chasing. "You give me the letters back, we'll bloody discuss it!"

With another flick of the wand the letters quickly formed a neat line in the air, and lowered themselves back onto the bed where Harry snatched them up roughly.

"Please don't try to throw them away again," pleaded Hermione. "It's a shock, yes, but those little bits of paper are much more important than you realise."

"These little bits of paper," shot back Harry angrily waving them in front of her face, "have been hiding in my Aunt's house all this time, _and do you know why?_ Because they show my Mother cheated on her husband and didn't want him to know about it – and he never did! So they are much more disgusting to me than YOU realise!"

Ron scowled. "Okay, now will everyone calm down, stop talking riddles and tell me what's bloody well going on here?"

Hermione, though, didn't hear Ron's plea. She had frozen mid-way through Harry's outburst, and was now staring at him with a rather eerie expression.

"Harry…what do you mean…._your Mother cheated on her husband?_"

It was Harry's turn with the weird expression. "Well…that's…that's what you've figured out from the letters…_isn't it?_" he stumbled.

Hermione blinked. "_Well no_…the letter I read was dated very early. Perhaps when your Mum was sixteen. It seems to be all about potions homework and nothing else. Perhaps your Mum and Snape were working on projects together in class." She looked up into her friend's troubled eyes. "If…if Professor Slughorn was teaching Potions then, which I think he was…then this could make sense. Your Mum….and Snape….they were both talented and would have been in the same class. Oh, and she must have been writing back to him, as right at the top he wrote "Thank you for your last letter…."

Ron's eyes darted from one friend to the other and then back again. "Merlin, Harry, your Mum and Snape writing letters to each other about homework, that's totally mental!"

Harry's eyes looked down once more at the pile of letters in his left hand, but this time with a numb, almost blank expression. He then looked back at Hermione, who met his gaze.

"May I look at the rest of them, please Harry?" she asked simply.

He didn't answer her question, but neither did he fight or resist as his friend gently took the letters out of his hand. And then, once his left was empty, he realised what he was still holding tightly in his right hand. Holding his arm up, Harry turned his fist upwards and opened quivering fingers to reveal the tightly rolled piece of paper.

Hermione, already engrossed in the next letter, did not notice. Ron, though, did.

"What've you got there?"

"Magpie brought it." Harry ran a nervous tongue over dry lips and began to unroll the paper, holding his arms tight to his body so that Ron wouldn't notice how much his fingers were quivering.

He almost dropped it though when he unfolded the sheet to find the same scrawled handwriting yet again.

"Weird choice of bird," remarked Ron. "Most people wouldn't ever trust a Magpie to do anything, let alone deliver their letters. They're bad luck too," he added. He craned his neck round to have a look at the note, but was suddenly distracted by another thought.

"Hang on a sec, where did that Magpie go?"

His eyes began to sweep the room. Harry, still engrossed with the note, and looking rather pale, sat down quickly on the bed next to an equally pale and tense Hermione, engrossed with the third letter; her eyes darting across the page.

Eliminating every corner of the room, the wardrobe and the desk, and still no Magpie, Ron frowned, then paused as his eyes travelled downwards to the eight inch gap beneath the bed. Lowering himself onto all fours, and then down onto his stomach Ron turned his head and peered into the dusty gloom. He grimaced as his first grope into the darkness brought back an old sock covered in fluff. Grumbling to himself, Ron then produced his wand and cast a Lumos into the space. The spell illuminated a few more old socks, but not much else.

Before Ron could even say "nox" A harsh rattling cry suddenly exploded into his left earhole. Alarmed, Ron jerked backwards and smartly cracked his head on a bed rung.

"Argh!"

Turning his head he caught a glimpse of a little black bead of an eye and a shiny great beak very close to his face. Giving a small yelp he wriggled back out from under the bed and sat up panting. The bedraggled bird followed him out, tilted its head up slightly and laughed its jarring Magpie laugh again, staring defiantly up at the teenager with one of its dark, unblinking eyes.

Ron rubbed the bump on his head and glared back at it indignantly as it fluttered up onto the desk and began to preen itself in a semi, self-satisfied way.

"Bloody stupid bird!"

Hermione looked up from one of her letters. "I wouldn't swear at it, if I were you; you know Magpies are a lot smarter than owls."

Finishing reading his note for perhaps the third time over, Harry finally peered curiously over the top of it straight at the bird. As if sensing it, the bird swung round, glared right back at him, nodded its head once, and then took off. Swooping around the room once to surprised yells, it flew straight for Harry. The teenager's first instinct was to put his hands up to protect his face, and with his hands, held up the note too. The Magpie snatched it away in its powerful beak, banked sharply to the left and flew out the open window.

The teenagers leapt up, but could do nothing but watch as the dark shape flapped off, swept between two houses and become lost in the suburbia.

When the bird was out of sight, both Ron and Hermione turned to look at Harry.

"What kind of messenger bird attacks, then steals the message back from its recipient?" exclaimed Hermione incredulously.

Harry frowned, yet didn't take his eyes off the spot where the bird had last been seen.

"I don't know…" he muttered darkly.


	5. Part VIII

**Part VIII – Two of One**

The Trio didn't have long to think about the strange behaviour of the bird before they were interrupted from downstairs.

"You're making an awful lot of noise up there boy…!" bellowed up Aunt Marge threateningly, her voice not a great deal muffled by its passage up the stairs. "If your Aunt won't do the decent thing in a minute and throw you out, you just wait 'til I get a hold of you!"

"_Oh yeah?"_ shot back Harry brazenly, a slightly dangerous glint in his eye. _"Want to come up and have a try?"_

"YOU WAIT 'TIL VERNON GETS BACK, YOU IMPUDENT BOY!" roared back the voice savagely.

Hermione shot a shocked look at Harry, but Ron couldn't help a grin.

"She reminds me of Umbridge," he snickered. "But fatter and stupider."

"Well, she can barely get up the stairs here now anyway," added Harry viciously. "She always has to use the downstairs toilet now."

Harry's adrenalin buzzed slightly as he found himself reminded of his last confrontation with his irascible relation. He could just imagine the violent shade of beetroot red her cheeks were going right at that moment. Brief images of him pulling his wand on his aunt and firing a string of curses one after the other at her - and the dog – began to run through his mind.

And then, before he could stop himself, he imagined blood-splattering everywhere as the Sectumsempra curse slashed its way through her limbs and stomach –

_No._

Harry screwed his eyes shut as he felt his stomach flip over.

There was a quiet rap on the door.

"Harry?"

Harry opened half an eye. It was Aunt Petunia.

"Don't worry, we're not staying much longer," he muttered sourly.

"Oh," replied his aunt after a short pause. "Well - I need to ask you something first...please."

Harry exchanged odd glances with his friends before peering speechlessly at his aunt's ghostly face. She was staring at him with such a fierce intensity that it made him shuffle uneasily.

And then it came, the request that every magical person with Muggle relatives waited, expected - and sometimes dreaded - to hear at least once in their lifetime.

"Harry...could, do you think you could...help your uncle? Help Vernon...please? He's sick...very sick..._dying..."_

Ron and Hermione looked worriedly at their friend, who seemed to be frozen to the spot at his aunt's plea. Hermione put her hand on Harry's arm, and he turned to her, his eyes hollow.

"I don't know," he muttered neutrally, his face taking on a closed expression as tears began to fall from his aunt's cheeks.

"I don't know...Aunt."

"_But...but…"_

"But what?" whispered Harry hollowly, hating the words that were about to come out of his mouth - though he knew they must come because that was how he felt.

"But I must help him because he's my uncle - even though he raised me in a cupboard and encouraged his own son to beat me up? Is that it?"

The very lifeblood seemed to drain from Petunia's face, and she grasped the doorframe for support. Unable to bear staring at her for one moment longer, Harry turned his back and stared out the window.

"Your mother – your own mother wouldn't have done this to me!" shrilled Petunia desperately at him.

Harry's expression following these words was exactly as if someone had just taken his gut and twisted it around. But as he had his back to everyone, no one saw, and Harry was glad of it.

He gritted his teeth and prepared himself for his cruellest sentence yet. _This ruthlessness wasn't him – was it? _But somehow in this moment of turmoil, he just wasn't in the frame of mind to care.

"_No?" _he replied coolly, turning around to face her "Well, that's probably because my mother wasn't locked away for half her childhood!"

Petunia Dursley, one half of the most Muggle of Muggles realising she would get no further, let out a low wail and turned to wobble weakly down the stairs.

"Well, that wasn't very nice, considering they technically are your family," commented Hermione matter-of-factly.

"Yes, well, some people don't have _nice_ families who are _nice_ to them," snapped back Harry.

As Hermione turned away in a huff, Harry decided there and then that he had had more than enough of the Dursleys and had begun to storm around the room collecting the last remnants of his possessions from the bedroom, much to the worry of Ron who was sat watching him.

"What are you up to, mate?"

"Well, as you've probably guessed I'm not coming back here again, this is the last time ever…and good bloody riddance!" he growled. "Shift yourself, will you Hermione? I need to get under the bed."

Hermione barely glanced up from reading the last few letters, which Harry had oddly been completely ignoring ever since he had given them up to her. "Why, what's under it?"

Harry scowled and knelt down anyway; pulling back the edge of the rug he lifted the loose floorboard and pulled out a small, dusty shopping bag. His expression somewhat pained, he placed the bag on the bed and tipped the contents out.

There were two Chocolate Frog cards, both of Dumbledore, two Fizzling Whizbees, an old broken quill, and small newspaper clipping about Quidditch from the Daily Prophet dated six years before.

"Why've you kept such a tatty old quill?" ventured Ron.

"Well, they're just a few souvenirs from my First Year at Hogwarts," said Harry softly. "That's my first quill, a few sweets I saved from the first time I bought off the sweet trolley on the Express...a few cards…" He trailed off and turned back to the window before adding more hollowly, "Back when magic was so much more…magical."

A soft gasp came from the bed behind them. Ron turned to find Hermione staring down at Harry in wide-eyed alarm.

"The first question," she whispered, aghast. "It was his first question to us…_to you_! Oh, Harry; to imagine he was asking you that question on purpose - as a joke!"

"What?" frowned Ron.

"The first question he asked, Harry, do you remember?" repeated Hermione, apparently not hearing Ron's question. "It hinted at the first project he and Lily worked on together in Potions; The Draught of Living Death!"

"Asphodel and Wormwood," muttered Harry darkly, glowering out at the skies.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

A/N: So many, many apologies and not enough space to list them. Please leave me a review if you want to read more, even just a short comment, would boost my enthusiasm for continuing this ten-fold! The delay in updating is not due to lack of plotline!


	6. Part IX

**IX – One of Two.**

A late afternoon bank of stormclouds were building up by the time the Trio left the Dursleys. Harry had packed every small thing that could be considered his, and had left the house without saying another word to anyone. As the taxi pulled up to the kerb, Hermione glanced back to see Petunia's thin, ghostly face watching them through the downstairs window. She turned back to Harry, who wore a fixed, stern expression. He was the first to get into the taxi and, once seated, never turned around, or moved until the taxi had left Privet Drive far behind.

Despite what Harry felt at this moment, Hermione felt hopeful that perhaps given a little time he would return to help his uncle.

As the thunder began to rumble overhead, and the first few splashes of rain trickled down the car windows, Hermione put her hand over the pocket on her bag that held the letters and reflected on the shock of reading them.

The first two, though a surprising enough to read, were formal and strictly adhered to the discussion of potions and their ingredients. But even from these early letters Hermione could tell that the level of discussion as regard to potions was beyond most NEWT Level students' abilities.

And then she had moved on to the third letter in the pile. A letter dated December 18th, 1976, some nine months after the previous two, scrawled on plain paper and sent inside a stamped, addressed envelope. Lily would have likely received it while spending Christmas at home with her parents. This letter, Snape's style, even his mode of address to the Gryffindor, she had to admit, intrigued her a great deal.

_Dear Lily,_

_It is awkward for me to address you by your first name, but only because you insist, and I'm not exactly keen to encourage any more of your womanish backlash. _

_I am writing to say I'm reconsidering what you suggested to me in the library after the last Potions lesson. As you might well understand it is difficult for us to talk in Hogwarts without incurring wrath from dunderheads around us. So, a letter is best. If you reply use the usual Muggle method; it will not attract my mother's attention; she is currently unwell and does not like to be disturbed by owls._

_If I am to do a joint project on the draught, you'll have to agree to my conditions._

_Leave your letters unsigned and without your address._

_Do not bother me when I want to be alone. I ignored you in the library last time for a reason._

_Keep your nose out of my private business._

_We could well try Asphodel in place of Crow Garlic, though I think I know a better technique than the one you suggested. It sounds to me like a crackpot idea that a typical Gryffindor would come up with – more like Instant Death rather than Living Death! But I will wait until we see the results before I gloat too much. And the idea of proving old Slughorn wrong is tempting._

_Why should you want to know about my father? What does yours do anyway? If you are so bloody desperate to kno,w my father works night shifts in the Steel Industry. Half of our street works there, in fact. If I had been a Muggle kid, I probably would have too. With the sort of luck I have, I'm surprised I'm not._

_As for Potter, I will make no such promise to stop hexing the idiot and his cronies, especially after last summer. He certainly won't keep to his promise. He has Dumbledore on his side, anyway, and it's pretty clear what the old man thinks of our House._

_Until the beginning of next term._

_Snape._

_P.S. Don't ask me questions about Malfoy. Who you saw me with at Hogsmeade has nothing to do with you._

Hermione, suddenly very deep in thought, gazed absently through the rain-streaked car window. Next to her, an already slightly travelsick-looking Ron took her hand and clasped it in his.

The Trio sighed with relief as after several hours of travel Ottery St Catchpole finally began appearing on the roadsigns. A traffic jam on the M4 motorway had added an extra hour to their journey, but on the plus side, Ron seemed to be coping a little better with car travel; he had only thrown up once this time. Hermione was adamant that, even if there was such thing as a motion sickness potion, she was going to invent one.

"Next time we're going by train," remarked Ron groggily as the taxi dropped them off.

As they strolled up the garden path and into the house, the teenagers noticed quite a bustle going on. Bill and Fleur were paying a visit, and Molly was busy rushing around as per usual.

"How's it going, gang?" Bill grinned. This was the first time Harry and his friends had seen Bill since the wedding. His face was still nastily blotched and scarred, his nose was crooked and one side of his mouth was definitely lop-sided, but despite his looks, his carefree air was still as strong as ever.

"The Wedding Photos have arrived," announced Molly proudly. "Did you find those candlesticks, Ron?

Ron squinted. "Find what, Mum?"

Mrs Weasley shot an exasperated look at her youngest son. "The candlesticks – from the shed! Surely you haven't forgotten, I only asked you five minutes ago!"

Ron exchanged an odd look with Harry and then stared back at his mother with a dumbfounded expression. "You asked for candlesticks from the shed? Five minutes ago? But I just came back."

Mrs Weasley put her hands on her hips.

"Ronald Weasley! Don't you dare take me for a fool. You came in, went up the stairs, came back down and went out the back door, you must have heard me…"

"But, Mrs Weasley, he's been with us the whole time!" butted in Hermione. "We've only just got back this minute!"

Mrs Weasley blinked, a slight frown gathering above her features. Bill and Fleur stopped talking and looked around. Just then there was a sound of whistling, and the cheery form of Arthur Weasley appeared at the back door, hat in hand.

"Hello all! And hello to the happy couple!" he grinned, noticing Bill and Fleur. "So wonderful to see you both!"

Gauging the awkward atmosphere his smile fell slightly. He then looked around at his wife, who was standing in the kitchen alcove frowning, her hands still on her hips, and then back to Ron, Harry and Hermione.

"Mrs Weasley," ventured Harry cautiously. "You couldn't have seen or spoken to Ron five minutes ago, because he's been with me all day, and we've only just got back this minute."

Arthur shot Harry a sharp look, and then stared at Molly, whose eyes were beginning to grow larger. "Can you tell me what Ron did or said to you five minutes ago?"

Molly's eyes darted around the room a little before coming back to her husband's face. "Well, he came in from the back garden first off, and said, 'Have you seen my bludger bat, Mum?' I said, 'Well, it's where you normally leave it, no doubt – on the floor in your room.' So he went upstairs… Oh, _oh my…some stranger's been in our house!_"

Molly gave a cry and clapped a hand over her mouth and stared all around like a frightened rabbit, obviously checking nothing had gone missing from the rooms.

Arthur crossed to the foot of the staircase and peered upwards. "How long was he up there?"

"About ten…no, must have been about fifteen minutes. I don't know. _Oh, Arthur…_" She began to sob.

Arthur's frown deepened as he went across to console his wife. "And what did he do when he came back down?"

"He…he didn't say anything…" she sobbed. "Just went straight to the door…but I said, 'Bill and Fleur are coming…could you fetch the table candlesticks from the shed?' He didn't say anything, but he looked around and nodded so I knew he must have heard me…'

The Trio exchanged alarmed glances and decided that, with Molly beginning to sob loudly it was time to move upstairs.

"Don't touch anything and be careful!" warned Mr. Weasley as they reached the foot of the staircase. "Everything will have to be checked, we want to know if anything's changed or gone missing."

Harry and Hermione nodded solemnly, while Ron looked shocked.

"Merlin's balls!" hissed Ron as soon as they reached upstairs. "If I ever find out what sneaky little thieving git's been in our house…"

He trailed off, red-faced and shaking with anger.

"We don't know if they've taken anything yet, though," reminded Hermione seriously. "And don't forget to keep an eye out for traps or spells."

The Trio, Arthur and Bill spent quite some time searching about upstairs testing for traps and hexes, and looking for missing things, but found absolutely nothing. Fleur stayed downstairs with Molly.

After the tenth look around Ron's room though, the Trio had to give up and conclude the stranger hadn't taken or done a thing.

"If they didn't want anything, then what the bloody hell did they think they were doing?" growled Ron angrily.

At a loss of what to do, the three sat on Ron's bed in silence for a few minutes, thinking. After a while, Ron caught Harry staring at him.

"What's the matter?" frowned Ron, reaching up to touch his hair, which Harry was staring at intently, an odd expression on his face.

"That magpie, Ron," ventured Harry slowly. "It didn't pull any hairs off your head when you were on the floor, did it…?"

"Do you mean to say?" began Hermione, slightly cross that she hadn't thought of it first.

"Yes," said Harry meaningfully. "I definitely mean to say…"

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: Thank you all for commenting and reviewing - they are all much appreciated and spur me on greatly. I'm back from my holidays now, and am going to get my teeth stuck into this fic! I have also written an entire SS/HG fic in my absence which pestered me so much I had to finish it before I could do anything else. I will post it soon, but need to get a few more chapters of this one out first!


	7. Parts X and XI

**A/N: I've definitely got the plotline worked out now - and thanks to my beta it's much sharper than it could have been. A Post HBP Severitus that works...oh yes... We may well be looking at a decent length fic. Oh, and some pretty alarming things are going to happen in the next chapter...so... unless you bribe my beta to tell all in the interim...keep lurking... ;o)**

* * *

**X – Rumours and Realities**

_To live in disguise is to forget one's own self._

Severus held a hand to his throbbing temple. He had always hated how Polyjuice made him feel afterwards, but in his situation using the potion just couldn't be avoided.

_Oh, it had been a long afternoon, but it would be a much longer evening._

He stared morosely over a row of Potions bottles at the cellar door, as yet another black-robed wizard shuffled past. This was the Dark Lord's fourth Death Eater meeting in a month, and the ranks were swelling at a surprising rate. It appeared that the loss of Dumbledore had brought even more people with dark intentions out of the woodwork. He didn't know half of the attendees at this meeting, and nor did he care to know them either. Neither was he interested in their parties, or drunken celebratory revels. As far as he was concerned he was more than happy to sit in his makeshift dungeon room and brew any requested potions.

They all recognised him and talked behind his back, of course. Out of surprise, disbelief, and jealousy.

_Well, he had always wanted to make a name for himself, hadn't he?_ And this was it, of sorts.

Snape felt yet another pair of eyes rest on him and looked up from his book with the intention of glaring down yet another stranger and frightening them off.

His eyes instead rested on the familiar outline of Draco Malfoy. With a slight raise of an eyebrow Snape requested the boy to enter.

_Boy indeed_. He was seventeen, and regarded as a man now. A great pity he hadn't even begun to act like one.

"You're late," commented Snape snidely.

Draco paled, but said nothing and immediately started work chopping up potion ingredients. Snape noted that he looked rather more fragile than usual.

"Considering the Dark Lord let you off so lightly, I assumed you would be a bit more careful how you tread."

Draco began to chop a Mandrake Root more viciously and mumbled something under his breath.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

Draco bit his lip. "I threw up."

"_Again?_"

"Yeah."

"Because of this evening's arrangements?" He was particularly careful to lay particular stress on the last word.

Draco nodded. "I just…I'd just prefer it if I was left out of these sort of meetings. They're just not…not…what I want from being…" He put the knife down on the chopping board, but continued to stare at the ingredients as if they were the most fascinating thing in the room. "Perhaps people think I'm only good enough now for chopping potions ingredients," he finished sourly.

Snape observed the boy coolly. "I don't understand you, Draco. Last year you were unwilling to speak to me, even about homework; this year I get the equivalent of a speech from you on the most trivial of things without even having to ask. Surely your dear Aunt would be the better one to talk to. She is, after all, the impresario when it comes to Muggle torture…"

Snape sneered as he saw the boy's arm twitch involuntarily. "But of course, I am sure you have heard her tales about her favourite technique; the delicate art and subtle science of spilling eight pints of a person's blood, before disembowelling them and slowly peeling off the entirety of their skin, yet somehow leaving them alive and in unendurable pain?"

Draco went ashen. "Stop it."

"However, seeing as you have been apprenticed to me, I could always make an excuse to relieve you of tonight's festivities," continued Snape, his eyes glinting like a hawk staring down a mouse. "But only if you concede to another Occlumency lesson."

Draco pulled a foul expression, yet he nodded and began viciously chopping at the Mandrake Root again.

Snape smirked to himself. Like Harry Potter, Draco disliked Occlumency, but, unlike him, he was a natural, and was always infinitely better prepared for the lessons. Bellatrix had taught him reasonably well, and it was also becoming increasingly difficult to break through his false memories.

"Sir?" enquired the teenager after a short silence.

Snape continued reading without looking up. "What?"

Draco moistened his lips with a nervous tongue, his knife hovering above the chopping board "My father…he…he won't be much changed, when he finally gets out, will he?"

A slight crease formed in the centre of Snape's dark brows, and he looked up to give the teenager an irritable stare. "I should think the amount of alteration would depend on how much inner strength he has." He quirked an eyebrow. "But why, Draco, would you consider asking such a question to one who is fortunate enough to have never stepped foot in the place?"

"Well, I thought…I heard that…Your mother, wasn't she in there…once..?"

Suddenly uncertain, Draco trailed off as his mentor's black eyes gleamed sinisterly at him in the torchlight.

"No, she wasn't," replied Snape coldly.

Draco raised an eyebrow and returned to chopping the ingredients. "Then the rumour's not true then?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "And what rumour would that be; Draco?" he replied sardonically. "Do enlighten me."

The teenager frowned, his steel-grey eyes darting away from the piercing stare.

"Never mind."

Thin, yellowed fingers tapped thoughtfully on parchment for a time. "I do wonder whether, perhaps, your Aunt may have taken a few creative liberties in fleshing out the stories of my past?"

Draco flushed. "Not really. She just told me the basics; where you live, that your mother married a Muggle, apparently went mad and killed him, then got locked away in Azkaban for misuse of magic or something…"

Snape's eyes glittered oddly. "Indeed?"

"But at least it's more than Mother and Father have told me. _And you_," he added almost petulantly.

Snape was spared from replying to this comment, however, as Draco suddenly felt stabs of white hot needles sink into his skin where the Dark Mark had been branded. He let out a hiss of pain and turned with horror to find his mentor also gripping his forearm.

Snape stood up, curled his lip and looked coolly down his nose at his charge. "It appears our Lord has a great need to see us all at the social gathering tonight. Occlumency will have to wait until another time."

Draco turned a sickly grey, and almost jumped out of his skin when Snape swung around and thrust a small bottle of extra-strong Calming Draught at him.

"You'll find torture becomes a little easier with that," he hissed. "But do not, under any circumstances reveal to the others that you need it, least of all your Aunt."

Snape watched as a little of the colour crept back into Draco's cheeks, and he was left to wonder why some sons grew to be so unlike their fathers, yet others, despite all other influences, did.

* * *

**XI – A New Clue**

Harry was still in a sense of shock, and, perhaps denial, over the day's events. Despite Hermione's barrage of questions, he continued to stubbornly refuse to explain who he thought the mischievous hair-thieving magpie could have been.

He didn't even want to try to utter that man's name at this point in time.

And as for why the bird had stolen strands of Ron's hair only to sneak into the Weasley's house and not do anything – nor leave any trace of recently done magic - well, no one had the faintest of clues.

"Well," said Harry finally, exhausted from listening to question after question and desperate to change the subject. "Are we going to Godric's Hollow, or what?"

Ron frowned. "What, now? I'd rather not leave Mum just at this moment. I think she needs as much support as she can get."

Harry turned to his other friend. "Hermione?"

Hermione peered up at Harry worriedly. "Well, I don't know…shouldn't we wait until tomorrow at least?"

Harry bit his lip, suddenly quite disappointed. "Well, I guess…"

"I'd go with him, Ron if I were you," interrupted a familiar voice from the doorway. The Trio looked up to find Fred standing there.

"Yeah," said George, popping his head round the doorframe. "Back-up support for Mum? We've got it all covered."

Harry gave a slight smile and looked hopefully toward Ron, who suddenly looked quite serious.

"Well, I don't know. What if the impostor comes back in disguise as me again?"

"Then we'll just have to tie him to a chair and ask him how he likes his peanut butter," remarked Fred.

"But I've hated peanut butter ever since you two forced me to eat a whole two jars of it for a dare!" exclaimed Ron hotly.

"Exactly!" chorused the twins with a grin.

* * *

O-o-O-o-O 

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't read those in my presence, Hermione," growled Harry, his green eyes staring coldly at the infamous pile of letters his friend had just drawn out of her bag.

"Well, at least I'm doing something more useful than throwing them out of a window," she replied, quite hurt. "And it's not as if you can change the past, is it? These might even explain Dumbledore's attitude towards him."

Harry huffed his breath out dismissively and scowled. "Well, wouldn't that be nice to know…"

Ron peered out of the train window at the landscape. "So, where do you reckon we are, now?"

"Don't ask me, I've no bloody idea," muttered Harry, slouching further down into his seat. "Somewhere in South Wales…maybe."

Hermione frowned at her friend sat opposite her. "What do you mean somewhere in South Wales? Don't you even know exactly where Godric's Hollow is?"

"Well, no, but I guessed you would have already looked it up," said Harry coolly.

"But…_that's beside the point!"_ she spluttered crossly. "We could have passed the nearest stop half an hour ago!"

Grumbling, Hermione took out her map and began flicking through it. The boys sat in awkward silence for a few minutes and watched the landscape rush by.

Ron hadn't said anything for quite a while – it was clear he was still worrying about his Mum. Harry gave a sigh and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His fingers touched the warm, smooth surface of the little locket, the fake Horcrux. He'd brought it along, just in case they would come across something, or someone who would be able to recognise the handwriting on the note.

Harry pulled the locket out and examined it for what seemed like the thousandth time. His fingers finding the tiny latch he opened it up.

The tiny piece of old parchment was gone. Harry's eyes widened; no it hadn't; _a much newer scrap of parchment had been put in front of it…_

With quivering fingers Harry pulled the new note from the case and unfolded it to find a message printed in block capitals.

"_R.A.B – Regulus Alphard Black," _he whispered.

Hermione's head shot up. "What was that?"

Harry licked his lips nervously and handed Hermione the note. "_Look._"

Hermione shook her head and mentally kicked herself. "Of course…! How could I not have researched… I'm such an idiot!"

Ron leaned across Hermione to peer at it too. "Bloody hell! How did that get in there?"

This exclamation caught the attention of a man in a brown hat further down the carriage, though none of the Trio noticed.

But they now knew there was only one way the paper could have been put in the locket, as it had only ever been in Harry's possession or left in Ron's room since they had it. The handwriting didn't give away many clues. Whoever it was had taken trouble to write in neat, unjoined capital letters. Hermione continued to mutter and berate herself, while the two boys stared at one another incredulously.

Finally, Ron spoke. "Do you reckon we should go back to search, back to you-know-where?"

Harry grimaced slightly. "Well, only if we really have to."

"But didn't…weren't most of the things cleared out last year?" frowned Hermione.

"Or pawned," added Harry darkly, thinking of Mundungus. "But yeah, I think another search won't hurt."

Ron blinked. "What if Mundungus did steal it? He's in Azkaban, isn't he?" He shivered. "Merlin Harry, I don't much fancy a visit there to ask him…"

Hermione put on a sober expression. "Hopefully it won't come to that. We've got a few places to search first. But I think we're missing one of the main points from earlier here; is someone trying to help us, or trick us?"

The three all looked at each other apprehensively. That was one thing nobody knew, but if it meant a lead on a possible Horcrux, then it was one risk they felt they all had to take.


	8. Part XII

**Part XII - The Meeting **

The Trio returned back to the Burrow at dusk, exhausted from the train journey. It had been no Hogwart's Express. British Rail had not been kind to them at all. In fact, they had been stranded at Bristol station for well over an hour because a train had been cancelled, then the next train didn't stop anywhere close to Ottery St Catchpole, so they had to take a taxi for the umpteenth time that day. It was just as well they had decided to put off the visit to Grimmauld Place until tomorrow morning.

"How in Merlin's bloody name can Muggle trains be delayed by a few leaves on the line? Sod this undercover sneaking about. Tomorrow we're bloody taking our brooms to London!" stormed Ron.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other and shrugged. Being brought up in Muggle families of course they were used to being far more patient with things like British public transport.

Entering the Burrow Ron found himself immediately on the end of two wand points.

"Peanut butter?" came the chorused demand.

"HATE IT!" snapped Ron, dodging the wands and barging straight past his two elder brothers.

"Woohoo…someone's got Doxys in their frocksies tonight!" smirked George.

"Leave him, boys," said Mr Weasley wearily.

After a quiet dinnertime Ron, Hermione and Harry stumped wearily up to bed. Hermione, had a little room to herself for the night – lop sided and full of character, as was typical of the Burrow's rooms. Curling up on the bed she pulled the wad of letters from her bag and began reading again.

O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O**

* * *

**

Apparating together, and landing with grass underfoot, the pair of Death Eaters found themselves at the edge of a large, grassy, rolling plain. The late evening shadows were almost gone, and the sun was shooting its last few dying, orange rays over the brow of the hill.

The heat still left over from the day made promise it was going to be a warmer than average August night. Strong smells of woodsmoke, herbs and roasted meat filled the air, and the sound of lively chatter, distant music, and laughter carried down from the shadows moving about further up the shallow slope of the hill. His eyes picking out the bright glow of a fire, Snape turned and with quick, purposeful strides began to head toward it, leaving Draco – perhaps intentionally - hurrying to catch up with him.

As they advanced toward the crowds a lone, pitiful scream shrilled through the air. Snape peered sideways at his charge to notice that beads of sweat were beginning to gather on his forehead. Draco caught his gaze, scowled and quickly raked his damp fringe back with his fingers.

"I advise you stay close to me, Draco," drawled Snape. "Unless, of course, you wish to be fussed and cajoled by your dear aunt. Again."

_"Will you give it a rest?_ I'm sick to death of hearing Mother say that," grumbled Draco sourly. "I am an adult now, _if you haven't noticed."_

"Quite!" was Snape's terse reply.

As they neared, they began to pick out individual people. All were, expectedly, dressed in the darkest of robes. They gathered in small groups in circles of light thrown from tall flame torches. Some were sporting their white skull masks, which were glowing a sickly golden in the torchlight. Beyond them, and stark against the dusky horizon Snape could see a group of even larger flame torches suspended in the air. They were, of course, there purely for effect. There to illuminate the grey solid pillars and arches of an unmistakable, ancient stone monument.

"I might have guessed our Lord would have had this site in mind for the next revel," muttered Snape.

Draco frowned. "Why?"

"The Dark Lord is keen to make his imprint on wizarding history. One of his desires, I believe, is to gain acknowledgement and respect from the ancients of our kind. Or rather, _demand acknowledgement and respect from them_…" Snape gave a wry smirk. "Of course, you cannot also deny that the atmosphere of such an internationally famous site must have engendered extremely good publicity. One only needs to look left and right to see clear evidence of that."

Draco peered curiously round the edge of his hood. He was certain he had detected the faintest hint of mockery in his Snape's voice just then.

But no, his face was as impassive as it could be.

They began to weave their way through the revelling crowds, heading directly toward Stonehenge. Some people were beginning to recognise them now; Snape could hear people whispering and hissing his name, some clearly in awe. Others were not afraid to make noises of disapproval when they recognised the young Malfoy.

Just then, there was an awful, loud, gurgling cry. The unmistakable high, mirthless, laugh of their Dark Lord followed. Draco's heart missed a beat: they were now close enough to the henge to see inside, and spot the two pale, spider-like hands of their Master held aloft over the crowds. And then, closer still, a glimpse of his head. His chalk-white face was lifted up to the skies, a look of inhuman glee curling his thin lips.

"Two more have found their destinies tonight," he rasped, turning quickly to survey all the crowd with triumphant eyes. "Here, at Stonehenge. Two mere mortal magicfolk have taken their first steps toward true greatness!"

The crowd cheered appreciatively. Some raised glasses of alcohol and toasted. Draco licked his lips nervously as Snape roughly began to pull him forward by his cuff. Shouldering people aside, they passed under one of the giant stone archways and were only a couple of rows from the front when a gleeful cackle of a woman burst forth from the centre circle. Snape came to an abrupt halt. His eyes flicked back and found Draco, and saw that he too, had frozen to the spot.

They were close enough now to see everything. A masked man was standing over two dead women dressed in bloodied Muggle clothes, lying face down on the ground. A third, dark robed woman was kneeling beside the bodies, her hood thrown back to reveal a head of midnight black hair and a pair of laughing, heavy-lidded eyes.

"Truly Great Master," crowed the woman. "Truly Wise and Powerful Lord: Thank you for aiding myself and my husband further on to the path of greatness with your superior knowledge. It is a glorious night, indeed!"

Bellatrix Lestrange laughed again as her Master's thin mouth twitched into a smile, his red eyes burning brightly.

Draco followed his aunt's gaze, and looked upward at his Master's hands. His eyes widened as he noticed a ring and also a small silver necklace hanging from his fingers, its amber pendant glinting like a golden eye in the firelight. His eyes then flicked back to his uncle, who had just removed his skull mask, his expression silent and gloating.

Draco frowned; _his eyes looked somehow different…_

Next to him Draco heard Snape murmur something. He turned his head and searched the man's face, hoping for an explanation, some enlightenment for what he had just witnessed. Snape's eyes flicked back to him. For a second he thought he saw shock reflected in them, but then, nothing.

Once the Death Eater couple had left the makeshift arena to carry on their celebrations elsewhere, and the bodies were vanished away, Voldemort began to speak again. The crowds hushed in expectation and fear.

"Welcome all to this great and sacred place," he began. "A place which ancient mystics and sorcerers, warlocks and necromancers have succeeded in performing great and glorious feats of dark magic, and where you now, have witnessed me perform one of mine!"

His gleaming eyes scanned the crowd watchfully, his voice rising in waves of passion and anger, entrancing them all. "Dumbledore fell so easily because he was weak. Not weak in a magical sense, merely weak in his mind, for he was always too afraid to harness and use the magic that I have always embraced. Now the great Muggle-lover is dead there is nothing to stop us pursuing our rightful mission for purity and justice in our Wizarding society. And yes, _my friends_…this is why we are gathered at Stonehenge today…to show we mean business! To show we – the victorious side - are unafraid and growing stronger day by day! Where are the Ministry Officials? Where are the Aurors? Where are the members of Dumbledore's pathetic Order of The Phoenix now?"

They listened, entranced by the dark wizard's measured, hissing voice, and awed by his confidence and strength of delivery, as so many before them had been. Snape listened once again to the same web of rhetoric he had been caught up in as a teenager. The Dark Lord was an awe-inspiring and powerful speaker, and it was not difficult to see why so many people were captivated by him.

And then it came to that point of the evening that always filled him with quiet dread; the inevitable listing of the new recruits. Snape watched passively as a crowd of thirty to forty people began to file into the centre of Stonehenge lining themselves up to be branded like cattle. Even now he had to remember not to flinch every time the Dark Lord's wand branded another follower, particularly when they clearly couldn't be more than fifteen years of age.

It had not escaped his notice that there were no less than six of his Slytherin pupils in that very line. Even though he was no longer their Head of House…he doubted he would ever see them as anything but his Slytherins.

There was a fifth year Ravenclaw there, too. Snape watched with narrowed eyes as she took the mark.

While he was busy glaring at the girl's face, Snape noticed a slight disturbance in the crowd opposite him. The people appeared to be moving quickly aside for someone, or something trying to get to the centre circle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Dark Lord, too, snap his head up and stare into the crowd. Snape realised with a flash of annoyance that the Dark Lord could obviously see much further back into the crowd from his position than he could from his vantage point.

And what the Dark Lord saw there must have amused him. Snape watched him closely as he straightened up again, a malicious glee flickering in his eyes.

"My faithful servants!" he called out, receiving an instant hush. An unsettling smile crept across his lips. "You have waited, you have witnessed, you have joined. Now, it is time, I think, for some of the more senior members among us to acknowledge an _old friend_…"

Voldemort gestured toward the disturbance in the crowd. But Snape had already noticed, was already staring. The front row parted quickly, people stared and gasped, some clearly in wide-eyed shock as the unmistakable white-blonde head, and fine robes of a rich, pureblood wizard glided swiftly past them.

_Well, this had certainly not been on the evening's entertainment list._

Rabastan Lestrange turned. Bella, who had been kneeling at the Dark Lord's side all this time, jumped to her feet, mouth agape with shock.

"Lucius! But…but, _how did you…?!"_

Lucius apparently did not wish to waste time in acknowledging his sister-in-law. Instead, he strode forward into the centre of the circle, clearly without the slightest hint of fear and thrust his pale – and now distinctly gaunt - face upward at the Dark Lord.

"Where is my son?"

Snape glanced quickly behind him to catch a glimpse of Draco, his face wide-eyed, and sickly pale. The boy was obviously torn between two outcomes: yearning to call out and be located by his father, yet at the same time dreading exposing himself to his Master and the merciless, disapproving crowd.

Receiving no answer from the Dark Lord, Lucius turned and began scanning the hushed crowds impatiently. Snape watched him as he did so, and it was only then that he noticed the tall, emaciated frame of a man with dark shadows under his eyes, standing at the edge of the circle, right at the point where Lucius had emerged.

Sanguini.

Snape managed to glance away just before the chill, soulless eyes of the vampire fixed on him. A second, darting look back at Lucius's gaunt, hungry face confirmed more than he needed to know.

"Away Draco,_ now_!" hissed Snape suddenly between clenched teeth, shoving the boy behind him with the back of his hand.

Draco, however, did not understand. In the meantime, Sanguini had signalled to Lucius and it was already too late for running. A second later Snape felt himself on the receiving end of the elder Malfoy's eerily cold stare.

"Father!" called out Draco suddenly, unable to yield any more.

Snape watched as the crowd immediately parted to the left and right of him. To his great unease he then watched as Draco dodged around him and walked up to his father, leaving him alone and feeling suddenly quite exposed.

The two wizards stared at each other for a few moments before Lucius Malfoy placed a hand on his son's shoulder. Snape stepped forward. Lucius looked up and smiled back at him, his eyes gleaming ferally in the torchlight.

"Severus," said Lucius smoothly. "How pleasant it is to see you again. I hear you have been mentoring my son?"

"Indeed he has my _undead friend_…." hissed the Dark Lord's mocking tone behind them all. "In fact, by kindly ridding us of Dumbledore, Severus has quite exceeded expectations in showing your poor son precisely what quality he is sadly lacking. _The killer instinct…"_

A wave of astonished mutterings swept through the crowd. Snape felt an unpleasant tingle creeping down his back as he sensed some of the newly recruited Slytherin students staring at him wide-eyed. Perhaps they were looking to him to assess his reaction; it had after all been an unspoken knowledge that he had always treated Draco differently from the rest of them.

Lucius Malfoy, however, had not turned, or flinched at the Dark Lord's words in the slightest. In fact, to Snape's alarm he appeared to be quite amused by them. Holding himself as proudly and as arrogantly as ever, Lucius tilted his head to look smilingly down at his son, who was looking up at him with a horrified expression, studying his face, recognising the signs...

"_No...!"_

It was a cry of someone who had just seen a horrible truth with his own eyes. Draco's cry.

The Dark Lord's face was suddenly a picture of silent, chilling glee.

"Let this be a lesson for all," he hissed loudly, his red eyes scanning the fearful crowd. "I do not tolerate failure. Those who fail and disappoint me serve only to be examples of others. And so ironic, don't you think," he added, his mouth twisting, "for Lucius Malfoy to be of considerably more use to me now than he ever was alive?"

Snape watched helplessly as the boy yelled and suddenly began a frantic struggle to release himself from the smiling vampire's increasingly predatory clutch.

"Draco, my dear _sensitive_ Draco…" said Lucius softly, a terrible, cold smile still curling his lips. "Why the struggle? Aren't you happy to see your father again…?"

Severus clenched his fist in frustration. _Apparate! Apparate! You stupid boy!_ He felt like shouting, but didn't need to, for just at that moment Draco managed to free himself and pull away from his father's grip.

There was a popping sound and a terrified Draco Malfoy vanished into thin air.

**O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O**

* * *

Back in the Burrow, the majority of the household had finally managed to get to sleep. All but Hermione Granger, of course, who was still avidly reading letters well into the small hours of the morning. She was halfway through the pile now, and was becoming steadily more fascinated with the boy behind the cramped scrawly handwriting, just as Harry himself had been intrigued by his Advanced Potions book the previous school year. Though his letters conveyed a similarly dark humour, it was clear he also had a passion and thirst for learning that she could identify with. 

But at the same time there was the subtle undertones of an ever present, brooding darkness; something in the boy's home life was clearly troubling him very much. It was clear from some of Snape's prickly comments that Lily Evans had been gradually trying to coax some of the detail out of him. And in some rare and surprising cases she had actually succeeded.

If anything, the letters seemed to show the Gryffindor at least was clearly interested in making friends. And more surprisingly the Slytherin, though much more guarded, was still corresponding with her over six months on from the class project, and was gradually developing into a more relaxed, less stilted communicator.

It was clear that somehow, despite age-old Hogwarts house prejudices, Lily Evans and Severus Snape had indeed cultivated a secret friendship.

Hermione frowned. _Perhaps this was what Harry was so furious about?_

Finally it reached the point where her eyes became too tired to focus. Her head full of unanswered questions, Hermione folded the current letter she had been reading and placed it carefully back into its envelope.

Extinguishing the glow from her wand she lay back on the bed and tried to still her thoughts long enough to get at least an hour's worth of sleep before sunrise.


	9. Part XIII Dear Lily

A/N: Lost muse and unemployment doth not good inspiration create. I am sorry for the delay in updating. There are now two further chapters written which, once betaed and checked will follow this letter very shortly!

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14th July, 1977 

Dear Lily,

I have not been comfortable with your line of questioning recently. Why do you Gryffindors always take things too far?

Talking of taking things too far, the gerbil didn't take too kindly to being given a draught of that latest recipe. Of course the potion is best tested on magical humans, but there are as you may guess, a distinct lack of those where I come from. It appears the quantity of Wormwood is much too generous as the damned rodent has been as stiff as a board the past week. Your suggestions have not helped matters for once. I cannot wake it either by spell or potion, though I have tried everything I can think of.

It wouldn't matter overmuch, except for the fact that it is – or was – my cousin's gerbil. My _Muggle_ cousin's gerbil, that is. My aunt found out after a week, and she plainly refused to understand – unlike her more perceptive daughter - that the creature was merely sleeping under the influences of a draught. So of course she buried the bloody thing in the back garden. Lucky me had to go out last night, climb over their backyard gate and dig it up again.

I've a sneaking suspicion my aunt does not like me all that much. The feeling is entirely mutual, I'm sure. She only lives opposite us, and I often feel her eyes on the back of my neck when I walk along the back alley. But then only father knows about the wizarding world; the rest of his family are still in the dark.

Is this the same for your family?

I wish you hadn't asked me to look up that obscure poem. Muggle libraries are fascinating yet irritating as they involve mixing with tsking, narrow-minded people who remind me of my aunt. Father is not really one for reading, but he did take me along there once as a small child. In his ignorance he thought I would be interested in the children's fantasy section. Thank goodness for my mother's book collection, otherwise I would have been woefully and fatally misguided regarding magical creatures by the ignorant likes of Lewis and Tolkein!

Grudgingly I notice the colours of the flowers in the bowl are indeed like the house colours; they remain cool and composed while the dispute rages around them. I know you are secretly peddling your views on the pointlessness of house squabbles to me, so don't try to be subtle about it. Subtlety is not a Gryffindor trait.

I have a book to recommend to you in return – Potions - "Meacham's Antholigie." I found it among my mother's old books. I'd bring it to Hogwarts with me in September if I wasn't so wary about Slughorn catching me with it. He would confiscate the book in a second. You may find chapter seventeen very interesting indeed…and yes, that is my subtle hint for today. There is hidden meaning in my words, too, so look for it.

I have to end the letter here, I'm afraid. Mother is mewling at me as per usual. Is going through a particularly bad patch; hasn't emerged from the bedroom in a week, expects us all to wait on her. Idiotic mind games; that's what father calls them. Father is sick, too. His stomach ulcer flared up again last week, but being the stubborn short-tempered Muggle he is flatly refusing to take potions for it. The Steelworks are apparently going to make even more people redundant next month; he is getting old and fears he will be next.

What a glorious summer this is turning out to be. Be thankful both your parents are both well and are both Muggles!

* * *

(The Poem Snape refers to as reading is "The Disputants" by William Carlos Williams) 


	10. Part XIV The Visitors

**Part XIV – The Visitors**

The ostentatious Death Eater Celebrations had continued far into the night, and despite a local village being ransacked and Muggle cries shrilling unanswered across the hills, the whole event passed without the sign of a single Auror. Either something wasn't running so smoothly at the Wizarding Headquarters (How it irritated him that he was no longer freely able to discover this sort of information for himself!) Or, perhaps the Ministry – the portions of it that were not corrupt - were biding their time. Severus of course was secretly hoping it was the latter reason. He, too, was still uncomfortably far from what he wanted to accomplish, and he hardly wanted to die, be thrown in prison or be put on trail before he had the chance to carry out all his plans.

After the gathering he had apparated back to the Death Eater hideout to find no sign of Draco. He shivered slightly as he recalled how the creature that was now inhabiting the boy's father's body had snarled at him before apparating in pursuit of his son.

It seemed the boy's fear for the evening entertainment had realised itself in a wholly different way.

The proud pureblood wizard Lucius Malfoy was now a vampire, and ironically seemed to radiate more power and determination in death than he had ever done in life. Snape recalled the first time they had met. The upper class senior boy had given him warm welcome as a first year. Their introduction had occurred on the first train ride there, and Malfoy had been quick to make it clear he wished Severus to be in Slytherin.

And the ambitious first year from a poor, working class home was then indeed sorted into Slytherin, and he did of course take great lengths to be like that elder boy, to hide his regional accent, disguise his station, to make sure he made the most of his mother's connection to the old pureblood line of Prince. Though the thought was more repulsive to him now, once upon a time, Severus Snape had desired to be like Lucius Malfoy.

Now Malfoy was on nobody's side, really, not even his own. Malfoy was now a soulless, damned creature, a hollow mockery of the man it was trying to imitate.

It was quite a shock, of course, Severus couldn't pretend otherwise. Though it did make him wonder precisely what the Dark Lord was playing at making deals with the vampires. Particularly with such an ancient one as Sanguini. No doubt there would be uneasy whisperings among the other purebloods about this.

He couldn't help quirking a lip at the thought of the expression on Bellatrix's face when she realised she had a Ministry classified Monster for a brother in law, though.

Snape silently opened the door to his makeshift quarters and was about to step inside when his nostrils were struck by a strange pungent smell. He recognised it instantly, went for his wand but wasn't quite quick enough. Faster than even his reflexes could react a pale hand shot out from the shadows and wrenched his wand roughly from his grasp. Snape went to leap backwards but the second hand was already tightening round his neck.

The pungent smell wafted forward stronger than ever – the unmistakably horrid smell of old blood. A pair of purplish eyes glinted back at him in the darkness. Eyes he recognised.

Snape felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. _Of course; how could he have been so foolish to forget that the door wards to the hideout welcomed all wizards branded with the Dark Mark?_

"I pity you now, rather, Severus," came the cool, detached whisper as Snape tried with all his might to prise the cruelly strong fingers from his neck. "I assume you have never had to deal with an old wizarding-friend-turned-vampire before, have you? One that knows all your habits, your secrets, your possible weaknesses?"

The vampire came forward into the torchlight a little more, The light gleaming off his unmistakably white-blond hair and ghastly pale features.

Wandless magic would not help him here. It was simply not powerful enough to blast a full adult vampire off its feet. Snape gave up prising the ice-cold fingers away from his neck and bared his teeth in defiance.

"_Speak of the Devil..."_

"Ever the skilful wordsmith, aren't you, Severus Snape? Though in this case I rather think you mean, _what have you done with Draco?_" crooned Lucius amusedly. "_And how your heart is thrumming inside that scrawny ribcage of yours._ Do you care for my son at all? Dear dear, I believe you just _may…_"

Snape's heart was indeed beating rapidly, and his initial thoughts had been about Draco. He hoped the boy had had the sense to flee back home to warn his mother. They would be safe providing she had not already unwittingly invited her husband into the house…

Lucius smiled just then, almost as if he had indeed read Snape's mind. "They have indeed both barricaded and warded themselves in the Manor. They know for the moment I am unable to step across the threshold. But they won't be able to hide from me forever."

"They have nothing to do with you anymore, creature!" hissed Snape as threateningly as he could, trying hard resist the icy claws of panic that were fast closing in on him.

The vampire quirked a pale eyebrow in amusement. "They are my recognised next of kin, Severus. Why, even you must see why I must turn them. I wouldn't want my family fragmented by hate and misunderstanding now, would I?"

Snape glowered confusedly. "What the hell do you want with me?"

Lucius' eyes glinted. "Ah. This is where it all gets rather interesting. The Dark Lord may still be able to summon me with the Mark, but by orchestrating my death he has removed my only limitation and my only sense of continuing loyalty toward him. Fear."

"You always were a coward at heart, Malfoy," growled Snape. He forced his eyes shut in an attempt to block the Vampire's mesmerising glare. _If only he were strong enough to wrench his wand free from the vampire's grasp…_

"Well, in my own way, yes, I suppose I was a coward," replied Lucius somewhat detachedly, a sinister leer creeping across his pasty face. "But, that is all in the past. This is where you should be wise to begin fearing me, Severus, because of course as we well know all the Occlumency skills in the world will not protect you from a vampire's prying eyes."

Snape couldn't help but grimace. It was very true. But it was not often that a vampire took that great an interest in interrogating a wizard for information, most were more concerned with the simple animalistic act of biting and feeding and moving on to the next victim. Voldemort knew this too, of course, but in his arrogance the Dark Lord had obviously greatly and foolishly underestimated the intelligence of this one…

"Indeed he did, Severus," was the chilling whisper. "And so he underestimates you I see. And if you value your life and intelligence, and don't want another more personal war on your hands I suggest you persuade whichever side wins to consider me and my kin more compassionately after the final battle. Though, whatever happens, the Dark Lord and Harry Potter have both helped to destroy my family, and I will have my revenge on them both."

Snape curled his lip in contempt. "It's not me you should be trying to sweet talk. Try Dumbledore's precious Gryffindors for that. Or perhaps call in at the Ministry for tea and biscuits…see if your dear friends there will have you back."

the vampire emitted an almost preternatural snarl of anger. He loomed closer and grinned to show the tips of his slightly pointed incisors in warning. "_Careful, Severus_… If your orders are to assist the Potter fool in finding the Horcruxes then you would indeed be an idiot to deny acquaintance with somebody who has a definite lead on at least one of them."

Snape narrowed his eyes contemptuously. "Only fools can be bought."

"No buying involved, just understanding," answered Lucius. "Vampires have been misunderstood for far too long. Killing humans is a natural act for us; wizarding law should not deny us this right and force us to drink bottled inferior blood which makes us sleepy and weak. You have seen for yourself what damage it is doing to Sanguini."

Snape stared back into the vampire's eerily gleaming eyes. If he was going to walk away from this unscathed it was paramount that he be completely honest in his thoughts. Very luckily for him, being sidelined and forever pigeonholed by society and the Ministry for making a terrible mistake in his youth he did have the ability to empathise with this creature.

If he was brutally honest about it, he was at this precise moment little better off and decidedly less loved in the wizarding society than a vampire. The thought was entirely unsettling, but very true.

As soon as he considered this he felt the fingers around his neck relax slightly. Lucius gave an oily smile.

"That wasn't so difficult now, was it my dear friend?"

Snape glowered. "The Horcrux?"

"Goldgleams. He keeps it under the glass counter at the back of his shop. Has quite a weighty price tag on it, which is why no one has purchased it yet." Lucius' eyes glinted. "Mundungus Fletcher was trying to bargain with me to spare his life, but by the description of it I realised exactly what it must be. An obliviate may have sufficed following our conversation, but I was rather hungry for my first kill and Sanguini was becoming impatient with me… He is a much more simplistic creature, is Sanguini. Great and powerful, but regrettably simplistic."

In spite of himself, Snape swallowed and felt a cold tingle of horror run down his spine as Lucius reached out with his other hand and stroked icy cold fingertips - almost tenderly - down the side of his face.

"I think we are in mutual understanding for the moment, my dear friend," murmured Lucius with another chill smile. "Now, if you don't mind I have pressing business to attend to before sunrise…" With one last chilling look, Lucius Malfoy placed Snape's wand back into his robe pocket before dissolving into a haze of smoke.

Once the Vampire had gone Snape sank down to his knees in shock. He clutched at his throat with both hands and retched and swallowed. The creature's flesh felt like it had burned where it had touched him. He could also clearly feel indentations where its sharp fingernails had dug mercilessly into his skin.

Severus had dealt with a vampire or two before in his life, but never a wizard vampire. They were exceedingly rare, and wildly varying in power and intelligence, so it was impossible to tell in each instance exactly how much effort it would take to kill them. Those few reported in history books who'd had the intelligence to protect themselves had done so with complex shields and charms. The best short-term tips the defence books could offer on wizard vampires was talk and bargain, rather than attack.

And Severus Snape had been lucky enough to be able to do just that.

His mind was racing. So much of urgent significance had happened in the past few hours it was almost impossible to take it all in. Someone else in the Order now had to be let in on his and Dumbledore's secret, the swift chain of events had grown impossible for him to deal with all by himself.

_But who could he tell?_

At this point in time he felt he would much rather talk to an adult, than three over-excitable gung-ho heroic teenagers with Hex-happy wand fingers.

He began to mentally tick possible confidants off on his fingers, until he was left with just one. His mouth twisted again.

_McGonagall._

Snape closed his eyes. _She must truly loathe him now_. Could he even risk contacting her, or slipping her a message? Would she even listen to reason or would her wounded and irascible Gryffindor temper blast him out of her sight before he had even uttered a single word?

Considering the fact Dumbledore had to leave her completely in the dark about their entire plan, perhaps she wouldn't trust him at all. More to the point; she would be shocked and absolutely furious.

He poured himself a glass of wine and slouched despondently back into an armchair.

The mantlepiece clock chimed to announce the time as six 'o' clock in the morning. Snape swirled the dregs of the wine around and swallowed them down. The developing bruises on his neck from the vampire's grip made him wince painfully as he did so.

Dying firelight shone off his pale hand, raised to trace a finger along his lips. He paused as he hit the indentation at the corner of his mouth; the tail end of a long, thin scar. His eyes clouded as he gently traced the scar's path up his cheek and through his eyebrow. One of the Hippogriff's razor sharp talons had torn its merciless way up his face in the attack, missing his eye by millimetres.

A creature that had only been fiercely protecting what it saw as its master and friend. It had succeeded where he had failed. Others saw it just as a battle scar; a mark of pride. No one would need to know that he had kept this ugly scar as a sober reminder that he had to succeed at his final, secret mission.

A secret mission that for the moment seemed to be fast slipping out of his grasp.

Snape let out a heavy sigh and turned his head from the fire, losing his face to the dark shadows.

"I just don't know what to do this time, Dumbledore."

As if in immediate answer to a summons, a bright flash of fire suddenly plumed from the fireplace, spitting out a ball of flame that shot across the stone floor.

After having an evening of shocks and scares, Snape's nerves were wound tighter than a coiled spring. On seeing the flame, he leapt out of the chair, eyes darting, his wand drawn in an instant.

The flames dulled in intensity, then disappered, and in their place stood a brightly plumaged bird.

"_Fawkes?!"_ hissed Snape incredulously.

The golden-plumaged bird peered up at him with one bright eye and trilled, in its usual concerned manner, before sticking out a leg.

Snape immediately threw a few protective wards toward his door and stared at the bird for a moment as if he had gone slightly mad. The bird still trusted him. He had been so involved in serving the Dark Lord and playing his part well he had…forgotten…what it was like to be trusted.

He berated himself silently. _Of course the bird would still trust you, Severus. You blithering idiot._

Taking a quill and ink, he quickly concocted a note to McGonagall, stressing the fact he had extremely important information that could not be ignored. With bated breath, Severus attached the scroll to the Phoenix's leg and watched as it strutted back into the flames and disappeared.

After more than twenty minutes of agitated waiting, the phoenix reappeared with the same regal attitude and a completely different scroll.

"_You have just given me the most frightful turn indeed, Severus Snape. Yet, Fawkes has come to you, and Albus' portrait is also shockingly and insuffrably insistant I see you in person before I make my final judgement on your character. So, if you are indeed in earnest, then use the secret passageway from Honeyduke's cellar to gain access to Hogwarts. It would be prudent to come in disguise, of course. I will not have my staff members be put at risk of possible heart failure with the shock of it all."_

Snape scowled indignantly at the piece of parchment.

_Did she think he was a complete idiot? Of course he was damn well going to go in disguise!_

But which sort of disguise would be best? He had neither the preparation time or the ingredients to impersonate any of the current Hogwart's staff. It would have to be a current Hogwart's student. And, seeing as he only had hair samples from three students at this point in time…

Draco's hair was useless to him here, and he certainly wasn't going to impersonate a Weasley again if he had any choice in the matter.

_Any means to achieve their ends…_

Snape's mouth curled in obvious distaste as he contemplated what he was about to do. He stood, walked into his brewing room, picked up a stand of empty vials, pulled them out and flipped the stand upside down. The wooden base slid across to reveal a secret compartment. His thin fingers pinched around the topmost vial. Inside were a few small short strands of black hair, and a thin torn-off slip of parchment on which were scrawled the initials: H.J.P.

Pulling a flask of Polyjuice toward him and removing the lid, Snape carefully pulled a single hair out of the vial and dropped it in.

Snape's eyes narrowed as he heard the potion begin to fizz as expected. He replaced the cap and stowed the flask safely in a robe pocket.

"_Coward am I, Potter_?" he hissed quietly to himself.


End file.
